A few days later…
The town once a fragile haven balanced on the edge of faction wars, had become a slaughterhouse.
War.
Screams clawed at the smoke-choked air. Flames devoured homes, their glow painting the cobblestones in shifting shades of crimson. The stench of blood and burning flesh clung to everything.
The Red Hawks, Golden Snakes, and Black Wolves—bitter enemies for generations—had united in a single, desperate purpose: vengeance.
Against the town. Against the academy.
Against whoever had manipulated them into this madness.
"Burn it all!" roared Jareth of the Red Hawks, his sword slick with blood. "If they want to paint us as monsters, then let's give them a show!"
Nearby, Silas of the Golden Snakes—a man who once prided himself on subtlety—drove a dagger into a fleeing merchant's back. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by something hollow. "This wasn't the plan…" he muttered, but the chaos swallowed his words.
And at the center of it all, Black Fang, his massive frame heaving with exertion, crushed a militiaman's skull under his boot. "Where is that damn brat?!" he snarled. "This started with him!"
His lieutenant, Vex, wiped blood from his brow. "You really think a four-year-old did this?"
Black Fang's grip on his axe tightened. "I think someone's playing us. And I'm going to peel the truth from his bones."
In the ruins of the marketplace, Garren, the burly third-year student, dragged a wounded child behind a shattered stall. His hands trembled. "We have to get to the academy!"
Beside him, Lina, the scarred girl from the merchant district, clutched a rusted dagger. "The academy's gone, Garren! The Headmaster's dead!"
"No—" Garren's voice broke. "He can't be. He was…"
A shadow loomed over them.
A Black Wolf enforcer, his face twisted in bloodlust, raised his sword—
THUNK.
An arrow sprouted from his throat.
From the rooftops, Rina, the sharp-eyed merchant's daughter, nocked another arrow. "Move!" she screamed.
Garren didn't hesitate. He scooped up the child and ran.
Away from the carnage, in the skeletal remains of the Old Shrine, Nayra stood motionless.
His small frame was a silhouette against the inferno. His eyes—empty, reflective, like polished obsidian—tracked the destruction with detached interest.
"One soul…"
A dying man gasped nearby, his life seeping into the dirt. Nayra's hand twitched. A wisp of light—pale, shimmering, barely visible—floated from the corpse and into his palm.
He absorbed it without a sound.
"Two souls…"
A woman's scream cut short as a Red Hawk's blade found her heart. Another wisp. Another stolen fragment of existence.
"Three souls… twenty-seven… fifty-six…"
Each death fed him. Each spark of extinguished life made him stronger.
Miss Elara, her once-pristine robes torn and bloodied, stumbled through the wreckage. She had seen the Headmaster fall. Seen the students cut down.
And then—she saw him.
Nayra. Standing amidst the ruin, his fingers curling around another stolen soul.
"Nayra…?" Her voice was raw. "What… what are you doing?"
He turned. Looked at her.
And for the first time, he didn't pretend to be afraid.
"Surviving" he said simply.
Her breath hitched. "You—you did this. You turned them against each other."
A slow, chilling smile spread across his face. "They did that themselves. I just… helped them see the truth."
She lunged at him—not with a weapon, but with desperate, shaking hands. "You monster!"
He sidestepped her effortlessly.
"Monster?" He tilted his head, amused. "No. Monsters kill without purpose. I…" His gaze drifted back to the burning town. "I have a very clear purpose."
And with that, he realsed his killing intent on her that make her instantly passed out because his strenght already increased so much because the souls he absorbed that made him powerful more and then he smiled
"Miss Elara u are so weak and fool" as he said he start absorbing her souls while she alive and she start shaking a fish out of the water and after some time she died too...
And with that, he vanished—not in a puff of smoke, not with a flash of light—but as if the shadows themselves swallowed him whole.
The once-bustling town was now a graveyard of broken stone and smoldering embers. The air tasted of ash and iron, thick with the ghosts of screams that still seemed to linger.
From thousands… only a hundred remained.
Huddled in the ruins, clutching wounds, clinging to loved ones who might already be dead.
And at the center of it all—Nayra.
Unscathed. Unmoved.
His fingers curled, and from the depths of his being, it emerged—
The Headslayer Cutter.
The blade pulsed with a dark, hungry glow, its edge whispering with the echoes of countless stolen souls. It trembled in his grip, not from weakness, but from anticipation.
"Time to finish the last piece."
His voice was soft. Almost gentle.
Then—
"STOP!"
Three figures lunged from the smoke, their bodies battered but their resolve unbroken.
Liam, the academy's star pupil, his once-pristine uniform torn, his sword trembling but raised. "Nayra… please. This isn't you!"
Zefora, the speedster that she think she is best in everything now as she formed a weak chakra barrier. "We—we trusted you!"
Sistie, the scheamer of the academy and torture and play with others for fun "You bastard… you used us!"
Nayra regarded them.
Not with hatred.
Not even with amusement.
Just… recognition.
Ah. The last remnants of sentiment.
Liam took a step forward, desperation cracking his voice. "Whatever they did to you—whatever made you like this—we can fix it! Just… put the blade down!"
Nayra tilted his head. "Fix me?" A faint, hollow chuckle. "Liam. You have a great acting to be kind."
Then—
A flicker of motion.
The Headslayer Cutter moved.
One slash.
Silence.
Liam's eyes widened. A thin red line split his throat before he could even scream.
Zefora gasped—then her body split at the waist, her chakra barrier shattering like glass.
Sistie roared, lunging—only for her fist to pass through empty air as Nayra stepped past her, his blade already sheathed back into his soul.
She collapsed, her body hitting the ground in two perfect halves.
Nayra didn't look back.
"Your role ended long ago," he murmured.
Then—
He walked forward.
Toward the last survivors.
Alextro,stood in his mens body "You… you little demon," he rasped. "I should've crushed your skull when I had the chance."
Nayra didn't answer.
His fingers twitched.
Alextro's head hit the floor before his body did.
Yukita , her hands raised. "I—I know it was you! Devil!"
Nayra's blade flashed.
She didn't even have time to beg.
And then—
Black Fang.
The massive warlord stood amidst the corpses of his own men, his axe slick with blood—his own faction's blood.
"So," he growled. "It was you. From the start."
Nayra met his gaze. "Yes."
Black Fang's lips peeled back in a snarl. "I'll drag you to hell with me, brat."
He charged.
Nayra didn't dodge.
He simply raised a hand.
Black Fang's body froze.
His veins turned black. His eyes bulged. His muscles rotted from the inside out.
"W-what…?" he choked.
Nayra leaned in, whispering:
"I learned this from the souls of your own men."
Then—
Black Fang collapsed, his body crumbling into dust.
Silence.
The wind howled through the ruins.
Nayra stood alone in a sea of corpses, the Headslayer Cutter dissolving back into his soul.
His work was done.
The town was gone.
The factions were erased.
And he?
He was stronger.
Smarter.
Perfect.
He closed his eyes, savoring the silence.
Then—
A whisper, so faint it might have been the wind:
"Nay…ra…"
His gaze flicked down.
Liam.
Somehow, impossibly, still clinging to life, his fingers twitching in the dirt.
Nayra knelt beside him.
"Why…?" Liam gasped, blood bubbling on his lips.
Nayra considered the question.
Then, softly, he answered:
"Because this world isn't kind enough to let weak things survive."
He placed a hand on Liam's chest.
And took his soul too.